Sorrow has its season,
not as master, but as shadow,
a reminder of emptiness
and the song that fills it
Sorrow brings us
down through the wet passage
of echoes, dark shiny walls
and the sound of dripping
We will know how deep we are
as sorrow plumbs us.
We’ll come out richer
on the other side.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 30, 2019
It isn’t bad
to have to cry
in spite of how
the sun has spun
the grass heads into gold
and wind has gently ruffled ducks
and all in all
it was a fine day
These low points
come in sometimes
like nomad clouds
that mass and gather
and move through —
They will go as silently
as they came. Either today
or tomorrow — whether
bringing rain or not.
Either the sun will melt them
or bright laughter
will chase them off.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 27, 2019
What makes a day prosaic?
Surely it’s not a quality of light
or the result of designated tasks,
or the company kept
or the internal landscape of my mind
All of these are full of poetry,
each, when focused, accesses a portal
opening, kaleidoscopic,
to infinity
Maybe it’s the flurry,
the attention taken
by stringed disparate tasks —
how they get loaded
in the barrel of efficiency
and lobbed forth —
how then I fail to feel
the gravity, and poetry, of each.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 16, 2019
I spent almost a week
like one of those yard ornaments
with no air blowing through it —
flat on the ground, an odd distortion
to its shape
Today I switched the air back on,
sat up, stood, walked with power,
owned my state
…in which condition
I felt much clearer,
less cold, stronger, and able
to face the day and do what’s needed
It’s good to remember
I have this choice —
it’s not my air
but I can turn it on.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 30, 2019
The prospect of departure
is like wood settling in to the fire,
causing a quickening of flames —
our actions burn warmer
though there is less fuel
to work with
We will do what we can
and leave when we have to.
There is power and comfort
in closure.
We’ll savor the silence
before the next act.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 21, 2019
At the end of our day,
size of remaining tasks notwithstanding,
we have to acknowledge
what was accomplished —
two vehicles saved
from the ravages of mice
(at least for now)
and some flickers of clarity
rising up in the firelight
as we considered
our past and future course
Now I can hold you
in the love that offers
a bed of acceptance
like coals hold the wood in the fire —
whatever you may think of your life
can be transmuted, offered up as warmth,
rendered translucent in the service
of that which glorifies us all.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 19, 2019
I still am a novice at fire,
as it reminds me, morning and evening,
demanding my humble attentiveness,
first in the building
and then in the watching
what the first flicker will do
I look for the rushing of flames,
the roaring of yellow filling the firebox,
I look for the holes where it falters,
I seek to provide what it needs
As reward, I’m provided
with myriad metaphors
curling and licking,
warming my thought —
fire within takes on a new meaning,
lighting my day with its art.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 15, 2019
Though I talk about
techniques for survival,
I really mean
ways to maintain joy —
there is a level
where it amounts to the same thing
And it’s easy to find uplift
in the faces of young fathers
and their children,
in reachings out for connection,
in all these things that
right now
are of utmost importance to people,
however fleetingly they catch
the light-elixir that sustains us all.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 12, 2019
I looked out the window
and thought of how the names
of colors (or lack of names)
affect the way we see,
and prayer and fasting
and what it means to believe
I tended the fire
and drank my tea
and considered what it means
to lose all faith in death,
and what life is
if it’s not temporal
Outside the ravens
were droll and musical,
the cat was eager for my lap,
and if I’m able to cast out demons,
I’m also willing. I take that with me
into my day.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 21, 2019
I say no to this cat
but she proves I’m not serious,
pushing her way nose first
into my lap,
waving her tail in my face
We compromise —
she gets to stay here
if she sits still,
if she lets me write
As for the mind of cats —
she must think it very strange,
all the little things I find
to busy myself — pointless things,
when I could be affording her a lap,
reveling in mammal warmth,
feeling the sunshine
There is a place
for butterscotch fur
and a tail that waves just so,
and a secret hunting side
to keep sheathed,
except for a touch of needle claws
against my thighs.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 12, 2019